


Back to the Trivial Stuff

by Callisto



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s04e21 Sweet Revenge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"F-feel like one of Hug-gy's dingle d-dollies." </i></p><p><i>"Well, you sure are ducking and weaving there, partner," commented Hutch dryly as he tucked the comforter firmly around Starsky's shoulders, trying to trap in as much warm air as possible. </i></p><p><i>"You want to lay or sit?" asked Hutch, smoothing back some wayward curls that had stuck to Starsky's still clammy forehead. "Huh?" He stayed where he was, waiting for an answer, trying to mask his worry as Starsky shot him a baleful look. </i></p><p><i>"I ain't g-going to the hospital." </i></p><p><i>"Lay, or sit?" repeated Hutch firmly.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to the Trivial Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic ever (Feb 2005)! Here is all its wobbly POV glory..

"Remember, if this kills me, you'll be all alone in the world."

A decidedly unimpressed eyebrow lifted and the hand holding out the pink liquid remained steady.

Starsky sighed. He knew he was being a baby about this -- it was only cough syrup, it would make him feel better and, besides, his partner was not going to back down. Thing was, it had been in the back of Hutch's medicine drawer since... well, forever. Even the label had given up and fallen off.

"Starsk, would you just take the damn stuff?"

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one riskin' life'n'limb here.You coulda-"

The patented Hutchinson Finger started to rise and Starsky, with the most melodramatic sigh he could muster, gave in. He knew, as they both did, that beneath the impatient insistence was a genuine concern that Hutch had a right to. And after the last few months, the last thing Starsky wanted to give his partner any more of, was cause for concern.

It seemed to Starsky profoundly unfair that his life had been divided up into before and after. Before? Hutch would have let him sweat the small stuff -- literally. A sore throat would have gotten him little more than smart remarks about the blessings of silence, the joys of not speaking, etc, etc. That was most definitely before. The day Starsky had hit the police garage floor with almost point-blank range bullets tearing up his insides... that had been the day when before ended and after had slowly begun.

Now, seven long months into after and Hutch took nothing easy about colds or flu. Starsky was healing, no doubt about it, but the experience had left him with a susceptibility to infection and an alarming ability to turn a cold into pneumonia. It had happened twice in the hospital, scaring any complacency out of both of them.

Hence the detour to Venice Place when Starsky had cleared his throat once too often for Hutch's liking. Hence the battle with the pink bottle.

"Happy now?" asked Starsky, his face twisting as the after-taste hit him.

"Blissful -- here, have a cookie." Hutch handed him the one he'd been keeping behind his back.

"What? No lollipop?"

"Starsk, do I look like your family doctor?"

"Now you come to mention it..." Starsky moved to the front door and held it open. He grinned as Hutch went through it, the blond head shaking in mock suffering.

________________________________________

"Throat better?"

"Oh yeah." Starsky twisted slightly in his seat. Ostensibly to get a better view of the warehouse door through his binoculars, but also because the muscles surrounding his various pieces of scar tissue still tended to stiffen if he stayed in one position too long.

"Stomach lining's taken a hit, but throat's doing just fine."

"Well, the burrito you washed the cookie down with might have something to do with that."

"Ya think?"

Hutch took his binoculars off his eyes for a second to see if he was being messed with. He was. But Starsky's grin didn't fool him. He had seen the shift, and while his partner's voice had lost its huskiness, his color was still off.

Okay, Hutchinson, gently does it

"Starsk," No response. A little louder, "Starsk..."

"Mm," Starsky's gaze remained fixed through the binoculars.

"Starsk, we've been here for, what? Two hours?"

Still no response. Hutch mentally counted to five and took a breath. "The guy is not going to show. This is a dumb stakeout,.we both know this is a dumb stakeout." Hutch gestured vaguely out the windshield and, fixing on his best, wholesome Hutchinson smile, delivered the punchline. "You know what I say, buddy? I say let the Feds do their own legwork and let's you and I play a little hooky."

That got Starsky's gaze off the warehouse. He looked across at his partner, well aware of what was really going on.

"Huh? C'mon, what do you say?" The dazzling smile was still in place.

Starsky should have been angry. Ever since he had been allowed back on active duty, a flashpoint between them had been Hutch's attempts to 'make things easy'. Starsky's fragile self-confidence had seen it as a mistrust of his abilities, and Hutch had been unable to relax his anxiety levels, or to hide them. A couple of spectacular blow-ups had ensued, but the results had been a healthier understanding and tolerance for what the other was feeling.

Still...

"Hooky, huh?" Starsky raised an eyebrow, but kept his voice neutral.

"Hooky," confirmed his partner.

Starsky felt a slow smile tug at the corners of his mouth. It really was not possible to be mad at a Hutch trying so hard. Besides, he was right. It was a dumb stakeout, little more than window dressing for a fancy Bureau gig they were deliberately being left out of. And the thought of stretching out on his sofa sounded like ten kinds of heaven. Glancing at his watch, Starsky made his decision.

"Okay, Blondie," he said, catching Hutch by surprise with his sudden cheery tone, as he knew he would, "hooky it is."

Hutch leaned forward to put the keys in the ignition, genuinely pleased with himself.

"But..."

"Yeah?"

"If the Feds ask? You made me do it."

"Gee, thanks Starsk."

"Anytime, partner, anytime."

________________________________________

"Seeing Gayle tonight?" asked Hutch, as he pulled his car in front of Starsky's apartment building.

"We both are, dummy." Hutch looked at him blankly.

"Double-date, remember? You, me, Gayle, Christine? Fancy restaurant? Your treat?"

Gayle and Christine were two nurses the partners had been casually dating for the past two months, Hutch for slightly longer. It was a cliché, of course, cops and nurses, but in their case it made perfect sense. The only females Starsky had been around for the last seven months were medically trained ones, and such was Hutch's level of involvement in his partner's aftercare that the same had become true of him. The two women were friends and often worked the same wards, so double-dates were relaxed and fun. And although Hutch would never say, he also liked the idea of his partner having a nurse around, especially when he wasn't.

"Like I always say, Hutch, memory goes first."

"Coming back to me now, Starsk. All except the 'my treat' part."

"Two words, Hutchinson," Starsky manoeuvered himself out of the car and leaned back in through the LTD's window, "check and mate."

"That's one word, and I still say you moved my bishop. But, hey, see you there about 8."

Straightening, Starsky waved him off and started to move away. He could feel Hutch's eyes on him so he tried to make his movements as smooth as possible. That was another change he wasn't thrilled about. Hutch should have left by now.

"I'm fine, Blondie!" shouted Starsky without turning around. "Go away!" Smiling, he heard Hutch pull away just as he opened his front door.

Hutch had watched his partner's rather slow, deliberate movements towards the front door, and, not for the first time, had felt an indescribable pang. He missed the famous 'Starsky bounce' as he had come to think of it. His partner of old had been a ball of perpetual energy, frolicking at his side like an untrained puppy -- irritating as all hell -- but Starsky to the core. He should--

"I'm fine, Blondie, go away!"

Whatever advice Hutch had been about to call out the window died on his lips. He shook his head. Starsky was perfectly capable of taking his pain meds and lying down for an hour or two without being told to by his worry-wart of a partner.

________________________________________

Starsky shot up, disoriented, and the first thing that happened was that the small pitcher of juice he had taken his pills with shot up with him and promptly emptied itself into the couch. The second thing that happened was that the phone rang again and, lastly and most annoyingly of all, he realized that his throat was sore and this time his head also hurt.

"Hello?"

"Dave? Is that you? I'm sorry... did I wake you?"

"’S okay, Gayle," Starsky blinked hard and cleared his throat. "Time is it?"

"A little after 7 -- you okay? You sound rough."

"’M fine," he cleared his throat again, "just took a nap. Getting a cold, I guess." As he spoke he knew the words to be true. He curled his fingers to the side of his neck. Definitely warm. "Teriffic," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. What can I do for you?" Much as he was having a nice time with Gayle, he was not going to get trapped on the phone with her right now. Like a lot of nurses, she was sweetness and light with her patients, and brutally dismissive with anyone else in her life who thought there might be something wrong. Her no nonsense attitude had, at times, been just what Starsky needed, whether he knew it or not. But now was not one of those times.

Turned out she was phoning to cancel. Her shifts had been switched and she couldn't get out of it. Starsky was relieved. He liked Gayle but no way his aching body was up for faking its way through a happy evening. Which immediately brought another thought to mind. Hutch. Thankfully, Gayle had already told Christine that she had to work, which would explain his abscence at the restaurant without anything having to register on Hutch's worry meter.

Starsky sighed and moved himself gingerly down the sofa, trying to avoid the wet patch of juice. He knew he should get up, get changed and get into bed before he felt any worse, but as he lay there, blinking at his silent, darkened apartment, a stab of self-pity gripped him hard. He was sore, sick and alone and the only person he wanted to fuss over him was the one person he couldn't ask. Not any more. Not for a cold.

Before? Starsky smiled ruefully. Before, he would have been on the phone within thirty seconds of waking up, whining for Hutch to come over with some of Huggy's mustard broth, and playing the 'love-me-I'm-dying' role to the hilt. He remembered the White Knight's suggestion of hooky that afternoon. No, he was definitely living in the world of after now. Starsky exhaled and put a hand over his eyes. Just another change.

Too much had gone down this time. His heart had actually stopped, even Bellamy's poison hadn't done that. He had flat-lined, been in a coma: And then, by the grace of something, had woken up, got up and walked, straight into the arms of a physical therapy so intense he had almost wished himself dead. Almost being the word, of course, because Hutch, had been there every step of the way. Every sleepless, stressful step. Which was why, in the world of after, Starsky could not -- would not -- interrupt Hutch's newly re-formed social life for a sore throat.

________________________________________

Hutch took a deep breath and eased open the front door with his key. He had no idea what he was going to say if Starsky was simply drinking a beer and watching TV. He had no back-up plan with which to greet his partner's wrath at being coddled like this. If Starsky was asleep, all well and good, Hutch could check up on him without anyone ever needing to know, just tip-toe in and tip-toe out.

Almost immediately Hutch realized that Starsky was indeed fast asleep, on the sofa. Pausing in relief, he turned to leave, when a small cough from that direction turned his head. Telling himself not to overreact, he nevertheless hesitated in the darkness, ears straining. He heard his partner shuffle, and then cough again. Not a harsh, painful sound by any means, but enough to move Hutch to the sofa in three strides. He reached across the back of it, clicked on the table lamp and looked down.

Damn.

Starsky was still asleep, though obviously not deeply. He was also still fully dressed, arms and legs akimbo in true Starsky style, but what drew Hutch's immediate attention was his face. If this afternoon his colour had been a little off, now it was non-existent. Perching on the edge of the sofa somewhere near his partner's waist, Hutch stretched a hand onto his forehead, just as Starsky muttered something unintelligible and coughed again. No heat. Just the opposite, in fact, the skin under Hutch's hand was cold and clammy. The figure on the sofa stirred again, obviously starting to come to.

"Starsk...hey, Starsk. C'mon, you gotta wake up for me now. C'mon buddy." Hutch gently rubbed his partner's left shoulder.

"Time izzit?" came a raspy, confused voice.

"Bout midnight. C'mon, open your eyes."

A pair of eyes slit open and winced. Hutch moved his body more to the left to block the light and smiled down into two rather bloodshot eyes.

"Sorry, buddy. But I gotta get you up and into bed."

"M'cold." And as if to prove his point, his teeth suddenly chattered together.

Oh boy. "I know. C'mon, let's get you up," and with that, Hutch slowly manouvered his partner off the couch and onto a pair of distinctly shaky legs.

"M'cold," repeated Starsky earnestly, grabbing hold of Hutch’s arm and trying to peer into his face, as if Hutch hadn't quite understood him the first time.

"I know, I know," soothed Hutch, and with one arm firmly wrapped around Starsky's shoulders, he walked him as quickly as he could towards the bedroom.

________________________________________

By the time Hutch had managed to get his partner into some sweats and under the covers, Starsky was awake and shivering uncontrollably.

"F-feel like one of Hug-gy's dingle d-dollies."

"Well, you sure are ducking and weaving there, partner," commented Hutch dryly as he tucked the comforter firmly around Starsky's shoulders, trying to trap in as much warm air as possible.

"You want to lay or sit?" asked Hutch, smoothing back some wayward curls that had stuck to Starsky's still clammy forehead. "Huh?" He stayed where he was, waiting for an answer, trying to mask his worry as Starsky shot him a baleful look.

"I ain't g-going to the hospital."

"Lay, or sit?" repeated Hutch firmly, ignoring the inflammatory topic.

"S-sit, and I m-mean it, j-just a cold." He stopped shaking for a second as Hutch stuck another pillow behind him, and fixed his eyes on his partner, appearing to come to some kind of decision. "You're here...now," he added quickly. "Don't n-need to go, you're d-doctor enough."

Hutch smiled, surprised and touched by the note of pleading in his partner's voice. It had been a long time since Starsky had openly whined to be taken care of. Maybe they really were starting to get back to the trivial stuff.

"Wh-where you going?" came another whine as Hutch got up and headed for the door.

"Back in a sec, buddy. Need to get changed if I'm gonna Florence Nightingale you all night."

Hutch came back a few minutes later dressed in a blue T-shirt of Starsky's and a pair of his own sweats. In his hand he had a cup of water and two tylenols.

"Hey, it's the l-lady of the lamp," joked Starsky weakly.

"You wish." snorted Hutch. "Here," he sat on the bed and stretched out the pills and water.

Starsky brought his left arm out from under the covers, took the pills and tried to take the cup, but the shivering was spasming his arm so badly it was clear that half the water was going to spill. Without a word, Hutch reached forward and simply wrapped both his hands around Starsky's and guided the cup safely to his mouth.

As Starsky slowly sipped, his teeth chattered on the cup, triggering a vague but sudden echo in Hutch. Of his teeth clattering on a cup held out by Starsky, of Starsky's hands wrapped around his, guiding a cup of bad coffee safely to his mouth, his own body spasming uncontrollably... His face must have shown something because suddenly Starsky lifted his head.

"Nothing, buddy. Just--"

"Least I'm n-not gonna throw it at ya."

It didn't really surprise him that Starsky knew exactly what he was thinking. They looked at each other, the faintest grin on each face, and again saw the million things which bound them. The sudden clatter of Starsky's teeth on the cup broke the spell. Hutch set it down on the bedside table and watched his very miserable partner wrap arms around what, by now, had to be some very sore ribs.

That settled it. Hutch had remembered something else from that long ago night.

"Sit forward a bit, buddy."

Hutch eased him down slightly, and much to Starsky's bemusement, moved himself up behind his partner. Holding Starsky upright with a hand on his upper back, Hutch scissored one leg down each side of him. Mission accomplished, he wrapped a pair of strong arms tightly around Starsky, pulling him back with him against the pillowed headboard.

"Should I be w-worrying 'bout my v-virtue, here?"

Hutch's chuckle was right next to his ear. "Not tonight, Josephine. You have a headache, remember?"

Silence for a minute. Then, "Hutch."

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Feel lousy." Another spasm took him and Hutch clasped him that little bit tighter.

"I know, I know." He paused. "You're going to spike a fever when you stop shivering. You know that right?" That had been the pattern at the hospital. "Right?"

Starsky chuckled and promptly coughed a little.

"Easy, easy."

"You bein' a shaft of sunlight again?" Starsky tried to turn round. "Y'know, you really do know how to ch-cheer a guy up, Hutch."

Their old litany.

"Well," replied Hutch, suddenly tender, "I do my best."

A minute or two passed in companionable silence, until another tremor drew an involuntary hiss from Starsky.

"Ribs hurt." Then, realising he was being whiney, he added "This feels n-nice, though."

And it did. The solid warmth of Hutch behind Starsky was a comfort to him in a way that nothing medical ever could be. He exhaled and leaned his head back against Hutch's left collarbone, way past any pretence at being fine.

"Anyone ever t-tell you, you’re better than cocoa at Christmas, Hutch."

"Only this weird partner of mine." Hutch's voice vibrated gently through Starsky and his breath as he spoke tickled his ear. It was, thought Starsky disconnectedly, one of the most soothing combinations ever prescribed for a sick person.

"Hutch?" Starsky had his eyes closed again and could feel himself starting to drift, head still tilted back on his partner's shoulder.

"Right here."

"’M not cold anymore." Starky's voice faded out on the last and, a few heartbeats later, Hutch realized that his partner was indeed tremor free and fast asleep. Slowly and carefully, Hutch settled them back against the headboard.

________________________________________

The feeling of being cold wouldn't leave him. He should be covered. If he could just figure out where the bedsheet was, he could creep his fingers out, find it and pull it back without having to surface enough to open any eyes..

A sudden chill swept across his chest, reluctantly forcing his brain to engage. Hutch finally opened his eyes and blinked. The front of his T-shirt, from neck to waistband was damp, hence the chill. Momentarily confused, he glanced to his right and it all became clear.

Sometime in the night Starsky had indeed spiked a fever and had rolled away, out of Hutch's body clinch -- which must have miraculously stayed in place until fairly recently, since he was still slumped, half-sitting against the headboard. The combined body heat had obviously been too much. It had propelled Starsky off his partner to where he now lay, curled on his right side, away from Hutch and as close to the edge of the bed as he could get. Minus all the covers, of course, which lay puddled at the foot of the bed.

Hutch listened for a moment. Starsky's breathing was long and even, which was a good sign. But first things first. Hutch eased himself nearer, and propping himself up on his right elbow, cautiously stretched his left hand over onto Starsky's forehead. As he had expected, it was slicked with sweat, but it was cool rather than clammy. This meant that the fever had come and was now going.

Hutch blinked in the early dawn light as it came to him what else this meant. No dash to the E.R, no knot in his stomach, no late-night vigil while Starsky's breathing weakened, no doctors' warnings, no rotten coffee on uncomfortable chairs. It really was just a bug, which Starsky's immune system was throwing off, just like... well, just like anybody else's would. Hutch let out a breath he didn't even realise he'd been holding.

"What?"

Hutch jerked in the dark and the hand that had been on Starsky’s forehead jerked with him, the heel of it clipping something on its way.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, buddy, but change breathing or something. Give a guy a signal before you give him a heart attack."

"What you doing, anyway? Seeing if I'm still breathin'?"

"Something like that."

"Pessimist." A beat. Then, from Hutch,

"Race horse."

Silence. The wheels in Starsky's head clicked along. He turned onto his back and squinted up at Hutch, who was still propped up on an elbow next to him.

"You're sweating like one," came the whisper.

Starsky grunted and turned back. No way he was badly off if Hutch was insulting him -- and making lame jokes besides. He felt the mattress dip as Hutch rolled away and got off the bed. He was faintly aware of his partner padding quietly to the bathroom, whistling something--

Whistling?

He knew there was something about that which his brain should latch onto, but his tired body was pulling him down again. He'd figure it out later, he'd hafta...

________________________________________

Epilogue

"You mind telling me what's goin' on here, Blondie?"

A distinctly rumpled looking Starsky stood, looking at a disgustingly perky Hutch, who was whistling and clattering his way between the stove and sink.

"I mean, I'm dyin' here, and your whistlin' in my kitchen like, like Mary Poppins at..." he blinked down at his watch, "...ten after seven."

Hutch turned, still whistling, and swept a critical gaze over the rumpled heap propping up the door. No shivers, no fever, which was good. Definitely too pale, though, and Starsky's voice had that nasal twang of congestion to it. But he was, at the very least, lucid, upright and complaining.

"Here, sit before you fall, and drink this." Without further ado, Hutch pulled out a chair and handed his partner a glass, which Starsky, of course, sniffed suspiciously.

"Orange juice, Starsk. Doesn't bite."

"Easy for you to say. How do I know you didn't lace it with something weird?"

"For you, buddy? Only arsenic."

As he drained the glass Starsky realized how dehydrated he was. He passed the glass back to Hutch, who raised an eyebrow at the silent command, but who refilled it.

As Starsky sat there, sipping his drink in the early morning sunlight of his kitchen, watching Hutch bash around in it, he realized that it really was possible to feel lousy and at peace at the same time.

Still, he had to ask..

"Hutch, you mind telling me why my feeling terrrible is making you so..." his brain searched for the right word, "...noisy? I mean, the whistlin' thing is making my head ache, I hardly slept, and..."

He broke off, genuinely aggrieved to find his partner chuckling at him.

Hutch held up his hands quickly, to cut off whatever tirade was about to come his way. "Okay, okay." He paused, considering the tetchy man in front of him.

"Starsk, think about it. Where are you not?"

"Huh? What does that mean, where am I not?"

"Where are you not?" repeated Hutch patiently.

"Well, I ain't in bed anymore, cuz I got Mary Poppins out here burnin' my toast and giving me..."

"You're not in the hospital, Starsk," interrupted Hutch. "You're not breathing through a tube, waiting for a bed bath," he smiled "or watching me snore in a plastic chair beside you."

He paused, wanting it to sink in a little. "Instead," he added, "you're sitting in your kitchen, drinking orange juice." He leaned forward, "and whining."

Their eyes locked momentarily, and a slow light of understanding shone in Starsky's.

"So," asked Starsky slowly. "Where does that leave us? 'Cept with you burning my breakfast and me bein' ungrateful."

"Well, buddy. Where that leaves us is with you taking these," he put some cold relief pills on the table, "after you've eaten these." He scooted over a plate of warm toast. "And it leaves me going back to my place."

Hutch shrugged on the jacket that he had slung over a chair the previous night. "We're back on at 5 today, so take it easy and I'll be back for you about 4."

Picking up the few things he had discarded the previous night, he looked back from the living area on his way to the door and smiled at the disconsolate figure still in the kitchen.

"Go back to bed, Grumpy."

"We made it, partner."

Halfway out the door, the sudden gentling of his partner's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"What?" He turned, hand on the handle of the half-open door, a quizzical look on his face.

"We made it," repeated Starsky softly. He shrugged a little helplessly, uncertain of how else to say what had become clear. He stood up and closed the distance between them, his gaze steady, his eyes warm and added quietly. "All I mean is, I ain't dying and you ain't staying."

To an outsider it would have seemed a strange affirmation, but all Hutch could suddenly trust himself to do in reply was nod, the slow smile on his face simply the answer to the one already on his partner's.

Hutch cleared his throat. "Pick you up at 4, then?"

"No."

"Huh?" His voice was suddenly back to normal.

"Hey. I missed out last night. You're gonna pick me up at 3 for a late lunch and take me anywhere my little curly heart desires."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," responded Hutch dismissively, out the door with a backwards wave, adding over his shoulder. "In your dreams, buddy."

Starsky shut the door, still smiling. He knew Hutch would be back at 3 o'clock, just as he knew that somehow his world of before and his world of after had blended a little.

He was whistling as he stepped into the shower.

******


End file.
